


Sick of This

by ExtraPenguin



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Despair, Exhaustion, F/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 11:38:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExtraPenguin/pseuds/ExtraPenguin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>You don't dream anymore. To dream would be to think that things could change.<br/>(You used to dream of gardens and growing large like your bonsai skellytum never would.)</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick of This

You don't dream anymore. To dream would be to think that things could change.

(You used to dream of gardens and growing large like your bonsai skellytum never would.)

You wish him gone, but when he isn't there, you keep looking over your shoulder and wishing he were there to see you weren't dallying around with anyone. You feel dirty for wishing freedom from your oath.

You feel ugly. Why would anyone put up with you, mother of one, old, worn out and despairing?

Your life stops when he leaves, waiting, waiting for what accusations he'll swing your way this time. Then he comes and yells at you and stops at your bed like it were merely a waystation and casually assumes you'll give him your body again.

You're sick, sick like when your mother told you to deflect hostility by retreating into a shell. Sick of this. Completely sick of never knowing when he's going to be nice, never knowing when he's going to yell at you for nagging him to check his breath mask.

(He keeps leaving things around.)

–

You try to be a rock, still, calm and free of sin, attached to him. You are tired. (You are exhausted.) You are tired of pretending to be happy, pretending that you're just one happy family, being the lone member of the household propping up the already-fragile façades of all-rightness.

Sometimes, you wish you could drink your way to oblivion. (Like the Vor bores at parties.) (But they're male.) Then you remember Nikolai, young, not deserving of a drunkard mother. (And you're female.) (Good girls don't do anything beyond childcare.)

You wish you could run, but you have nowhere to run to.

You're sick of your life. You pour your blood, your toil, your tears, your sweat into this marriage and nothing will make it better, happier. You're sick of being a caged bird, dying of its smallness.

You're sick of having your songs, your words taken from you. Your heart is sick, sick of wearing his skin always.

(He is all you know.)

–

You feel yourself shrinking. More and more, day by day. (Why? Why you?)

And when you shrink into nothingness, what will happen then? (You the zombie.) (Surely he deserves more than you?)

You chose this life. (You cannot complain.) What and idiot child you were. (Why should the mistakes of your youth be held against you?) Speak to the silence so you know the silence hasn't made you deaf. Plead it for help. (No-one answers.)

(No-one ever will.)

You're sick, sick like when your brother teased you mercilessly and your mother taught you to ignore it. Ignore everything. Never respond to anything. (Nothing will respond to you.)

(You are barricaded in by silence.)

Listen. (Listen!)

You are sick of this.


End file.
